


you hold me (without touch)

by streetlightsky



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19703119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/streetlightsky/pseuds/streetlightsky
Summary: She stared at the white dress lying in a heap on the floor where she had left it. It was from him. All the gifts were from him.





	you hold me (without touch)

The dress was the nicest thing Jemma had seen in months. No embellishments, awkward seams, or any other messy details; just pristine fabric lying in an equally spotless box. The garment could’ve been bought from a flea market for all she knew and cared. The rest of her wardrobe—all three outfits—paled in comparison.

Wiping a hand against her pant leg, Jemma hesitated before running her knuckles against the material. The polyester felt like silk when all she had were scratchy shirts. There were no liberties or luxuries here. Her anonymous benefactor, though, didn’t seem to follow those rules.

The tag, revealed underneath a folded piece of paper, showed the right size—a fact that made her pause. She should be used to it by now, but such invasions of privacy would never be anything except unsettling in the enemy’s hands.

At least they had stopped torturing her. At least she had been given a private cell. At least she had two meals and her own bathroom, even if every shower was a cold one.

Jemma traced the collar of the dress with her fingers in suppressed and shameful indulgence before reading the note.

_I’ll see you tonight._

Stricken, Jemma took a shuddering breath and a step back. The message fell from her hold and fluttered back into the open box, which she now regarded like a ticking time bomb. In an instant, her composure turned into anxiety. What had brought her intrigue seconds ago now sent shockwaves of panic through her veins.

She had been receiving gifts sporadically for months: books, a box of chocolate she had thrown out, safety glasses for her ignored privileges at the lab, a potted cactus. All of them came packaged with short, unremarkable notes. None of them so much as hinted what this one pronounced.

It was hard to think of anything but the worst—where she was headed, who she would see, what her fate would be. And every scenario she imagined ended in her ugly demise. Nothing made a bigger statement than blood stains on a white dress.

The abrupt knock on the steel door sent her anxiety level up another notch. “Five minutes!” she heard the agent warn. The last time Jemma failed to show up promptly, they had her then lecherous guard threaten all sorts of bodily harm unless she complied. Even after he had been replaced, she still feared the day they would come take advantage of her.

Swallowing, she took the parcel to the bathroom to change. She had yet to figure out where the hidden cameras were, but it mattered less when she would rather be clean than infected from their inflicted wounds.

The dress rested on her body fittingly so much that Jemma bit her lip looking down at the floor-length skirt covering her imperfections. And despite everything working against her—the place, the people, the corrupt intentions—she couldn’t help but splash water on her face and comb her fingers through her hair.

A mixture of distress, acceptance, and resolve ran together with her adrenaline. Stepping out of her cell never meant good things, but even she couldn’t stand the way the dull walls were blending these days.

Jemma went to unlock the door just as it swung open, and the agent on the other side stopped to blink at her outfit. “He must really like you,” the woman remarked before slapping on handcuffs and pulling Jemma along to parts unknown.

She didn’t know what to make of it—didn’t know what to say when she followed the agent down the side stairwell instead of the main hallway and elevator, didn’t know what to think when multiple pairs of eyes watched them go and zero protests impeded their movement.

But when the door opened to the outside world and Jemma had to squint at the painful brightness from the long-forgotten sun, her curiosity could not remain silent any longer.

“What’s going on? Where are you taking me?” Her voice was hoarse and ignored. Her steps faltered in sheer incredulity of her surroundings as they exited the facility. It had always been cold and damp in her cell; the natural light made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

Stumbling towards an unmarked, black SUV with the rear door open, Jemma whipped her head around to see an unfamiliar man. Her apprehension increased another grade watching him reach for his holster.

“Get in,” the woman instructed. Jemma didn’t know what was worse—staying in a known Hydra compound for an unknown period of time or leaving with known Hydra agents to an unknown location.

“Please, where are you taking me?” she repeated. Her pulse boomed in her ears. Her hands rose to uselessly protect herself. “I—”

Jemma didn’t remember their reactions to her incomplete plea; she only remembered the terrifying fear and sadness in her watching the male agent fire the shot into her shoulder.

She woke suddenly—an unspecified amount of time later—as if the nightmare she had been having finally caught up to her. Jerking up, Jemma found a wool blanket pooled in her lap and the two agents from before up front in the car. The woman in the driver’s seat glanced at her through the rearview mirror before returning her eyes to the road ahead.

“You shot me with an ICER,” Jemma mumbled while blinking away her grogginess. Her hand went to push loose hair off her face only for it to be yanked back by the handcuff attached ot the grab handle.

“Didn’t know it had that kind of stopping power. You missed the whole plane ride,” the woman commented. Jemma stilled at the fact.

“Hey!” the man snapped.

“What’s the difference? She’s got no clue where we were. And hell if the boss is ever gonna let anyone take her back.”

Jemma absorbed the information for processing. She learned more in the last minute than she had during the months of her captivity. Anything contributing to her freedom she considered a benefit. Someday, someway, she would extricate herself from this mess. She would fall into the right hands again. She had to believe it to survive.

Her cultivated patience kicked in as they drove on. Despite the tinted windows, she peered ahead through the windshield for any markers. Even none told her something.

But the ride ended as quickly as it started for her. They pulled up to a guardhouse, and the driver lowered her window for the man in the booth. By instinct, Jemma retreated in her seat and covered the blanket over her body as best she could.

“This her?” the third man said, staring at her. “Boss sure put some effort into this one.”

Jemma winced at the indication—as if she was one in a long line of targets their so-called superior had conquered.

Suddenly, the dress felt cheap. What she had believed to be a luxury now became a symbol of her powerlessness and inferiority. Her interest in this venture sharply waned—changing from confusion and wonder back to her usual dread and contempt.

After they parked in the driveway, the man in the passenger seat got out first. And as quickly as he opened her door, which had Jemma falling out of the car with her hand still attached to the inside handle, he maneuvered that cuff right back onto her wrist. She looked at him, the man who had shot her, and saw nothing but irritation.

She turned to squint at the property instead. The place looked quaint despite the agents that had brought her. Large arches and patio furniture gave the house an old, authentic feel Jemma guessed to be Southern European—or the Californian countryside. The blue shutters even managed to remind her of Sundays back in England for afternoon tea in her grandparents’ garden.

Jemma wondered if Hydra was slipping or whether occupying picturesque villas was part of their master plan to take over the world.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the female agent round the back of the vehicle to her side. The woman picked up the discarded blanket on the gravel and threw it in the backseat before slamming the door shut.

“Let’s go, princess,” she said, gripping Jemma by the elbow and thrusting her along.

Everything moved past her like a blur. The greenery outside, the decor inside, none of it registered when she was hastily pushed ahead. Jemma tried her best to resist, to take in what she could for future reference. She wished her nerves would cooperate.

They stopped in front of a staircase, and Jemma gulped looking up at what she didn’t know was waiting for her. She glanced at the agent, undoing her restraints.

“This is as far as I go,” she said, tucking away the handcuffs. “Last bedroom on your left.” But Jemma stood still—mind void of all the questions and entreaties she should have been articulating.

Sighing, the woman gripped her arm again and looked her dead in the eye. “Do us all a favor? Go upstairs,” she instructed and gave Jemma a good shove up the first step.

No one compelled her the rest of the way up. No one forced her to go left instead of right. Nobody coerced her to walk towards what was likely imminent peril instead of rummaging through other rooms for any conceivable weapon or escape route.

Jemma didn’t feel in control of her body. Instead, she seemed to watch herself rub the red circles on her wrist and put one foot in front of the other. Somewhere inside of her mind where logic was hidden, protests screamed for her to run. But she didn’t.

And soon enough, she arrived at her fateful destination.

She peered in half-expecting a torture chamber with those machines that had successfully and yet unsuccessfully broke her. In its place was an ordinary bedroom. Not much assuaged, Jemma gulped and tiptoed past the doorway.

Her heart beat in her throat as a set of open French doors dared her to continue. She had made it this far. What could possibly—

Jemma had only seen his partial profile, but it was enough to send her reeling backwards in wide-eyed terror. Gasping, she tripped over the material of her dress right into the hinges on the doorframe where she braced herself.

And he turned because she wasn’t exactly quiet and smiled at her like this was a reunion rather than their first encounter.

“No, do it like I planned. There’s something I need to take care of right now,” he said into his phone on one hand. The other held a tumbler he set on the balcony railing. Jemma stared aghast and immobile—more petrified than she had been since the start of their cruelty against double agents like her and wishing she could turn back time to run instead of follow orders the way she had the majority of her life.

There were people like Bakshi and that lewd guard—both merciless and dangerous as typical of any random Hydra agent. But he was different. Jemma had heard of his reputation long before she crossed into enemy territory. She knew exactly who he was, what he was capable of.

“No, just get it done. I have to go. Update me tomorrow,” he stated and ended his call.

The silence was deafening. The way he looked at her was so intense, so pervasive. In return, Jemma stared in wild horror at her adversary. He had her pinned in a corner right where he wanted. He had built up this mystery persona and made her believe he was some saving grace amongst the evils of his organization. But in truth, he was the epitome of what Hydra stood for.

“You’re here,” he said. The tenderness in his voice disgusted her. “I hope the trip was okay. I wanted to get you sooner, but I was tied up with—”

He stepped forward, and Jemma pressed her back further into the doorframe. He stopped, hesitated, and lifted his hand as to reassure her.

“I’m—”

“Grant Ward,” she said. Jemma watched him with wary eyes, hyperaware of the slightest shift in his expression and how he edged forward in a way she wouldn’t have noticed in other circumstances.

She wished she had trained harder, longer. She wished she had known how to better defend herself. Jemma wished she hadn’t volunteered for that mission at all.

“Grant works just fine,” he told her. Jemma could not care less about informalities when he could kill her in ways her two PhDs could not imagine.

She shivered at the mere thought—the blood in her veins suddenly like freezing water. Waiting instilled equal amounts of fear as its initiator. And as time continued to tick by, Jemma coiled further into herself in anticipation of the final blow.

“Why don’t we sit,” he suggested, pulling a chair out for her. She hadn’t even registered the small dining table set between them when her eyes were torn between closing and watching his every move. It was difficult to focus on anything else but his looming presence when her mind was preoccupied with the fear of where this was going, what he would do to her.

But he stood there, insistent, with his hands on the back of the seat, and waiting. And Jemma averted her eyes because it became too much. His tone, position, demeanor, they were not what she expected and yet everything she feared. He had complete control over her, and she was helpless at his mercy.

Her hands trembled even in the gripped fists she clenched while finally obliging with his request. Jemma didn’t dare make eye contact up close. She simply sat as bade and pleaded for her life in silence.

He didn’t push further, though, and let her settle as he took his seat opposite of hers. Unable to come to terms with it all, she looked down at the silverware set in front of her.

There was a knife.

It had been a long time since Jemma had proper meal let alone appropriate utensils to eat with. Even after moving to an enclosed cell, they had removed anything resembling a makeshift weapon. Why they still wanted her alive at that point, she hadn’t understood. But Jemma was beginning to think he had something to do with it.

“I’m sure you’re hungry. I know they probably didn’t give you much there,” he said. And a woman came up right on cue with a tray and two steaming plates.

“Come richiesto, signore. C'è qualcos'altro che vorresti?”

“No, che sarebbe tutto per stasera, grazie.”

Jemma nearly missed the language clue while staring at the mysterious third party in an apron. The woman gave her an encouraging smile before departing, and Jemma was left wondering how she had missed her presence after walking through the first floor moments ago.

The food was an equal enigma—one that smelled delicious yet somehow turned her stomach. Jemma didn’t dare touch the tender meat, bright vegetables, or the wine in her glass she didn’t remember anyone pouring. Despite being ravenous, she didn’t have a death wish.

“It’s lamb,” he offered. And she mesmerizingly watched his hand lift a forkful of food into his mouth and the way his jaw moved when he chewed like these enthralling motions were the latest scientific breakthrough during her time away from the community.

They didn’t make her feel any safer.

“Jemma.”

Hearing her name uttered from his lips for the first time snapped her out of the trance. When she chanced a glance at his face, Jemma followed his line of sight to her white-knuckled grip on her steak knife, clattering onto the table once she released it from her clutch.

He really expected her to eat, had absolute confidence she would not jump off this balcony or flee back down the stairs or use any of the utensils to try and hurt him or herself. Jemma saw his certainty in everything—calculations and backup plans ready at a moment’s notice.

There was no one but them on that terrace, and yet Jemma had never felt so surrounded.

In the end, keeping her mouth full was better than leaving it empty and giving him the opportunity to induce conversation, even if that meant potential death.

The brief moments he did speak, Jemma winced with detest. How ashamed she was of herself to still be here and yield to his demands. How angry she was at him for continually giving her a false sense of security. He was dangerous; he was the enemy; he was never to be trusted.

The sun waned in the sky, and Jemma wrung her hands in her lap waiting for this nightmare to end. Her body grew tired though her mind remained sharp and alert. She just wanted to know why he was doing this, what he wanted from her. She just wanted it to be over.

“If you’re up for it”—she grimaced—“I’d like to give you a tour,” he said later. “The house isn’t that large, but if it makes you feel more comfortable to know where you’ll be staying, I can show you around.”

He didn’t give her much of a choice. When he stood, she stiffened and hesitated but followed suit now knowing from experience that his waiting form was far more intimidating.

She kept as much as a distance between them as she could—following the heel of his steps and tightening every time he paused to talk. Jemma listened to an extent while keeping one eye on his back and the other on whatever he stopped to point out every so often. The decor neither matched his reputation nor Hydra’s, and again she was hit with nostalgic and inviting feelings so incongruous with the company she was forced to keep.

They rounded the property before making their way back upstairs where he showed her her room. Jemma stopped on one side of the hallway while he stood by the doorframe. When she dared to look, he had what she thought was a pensive expression on his face.

“I had this room prepared for you,” he told her. “It’s not much right now, but it’s yours. You can do what you like with it.” Jemma held ground at her side of the hall and peered over his frame to see a made bed. And despite it being ordinary, the room was a clear upgrade from her last living quarters even if she did have to leave to access the multiple bathrooms on the floor.

“There are some new clothes in the wardrobe, supplies in the bathroom. If you need anything, let me know. I’m”—he paused—“at the end of the hall. If you think of something when I’m not here, just call down to the gate and they’ll let me know so I can take care of it.”

Jemma swallowed. He was being unbearably nice in the most sickening manner. She couldn’t voice appreciation when she still believed the setup to be a ruse—that she would never see tomorrow come to light. But it was apparent that he expected something from her as he stood there with a piercing gaze she could not see but feel that again waited for what she couldn’t and wouldn’t give.

His lips parted to say something, but nothing came out except a heavy exhale. Jemma bit the inside of her cheek believing she had lost the battle. Instead, he only murmured, “Good night,” and made his way downstairs.

Jemma did not hesitate before securing herself behind a locked door and matching his sigh of relief for a very different reason. Her eyes swept over the room in curiosity and assessment, and then she got to work.

The armoire opened to an array of clothing she had no time to contemplate. Jemma picked a sweater and pair of jeans at random and changed without concern for the potential hidden cameras around the room. The fact that the outfit fit did not go unnoticed.

After, she rifled through every drawer, cabinet, and container there was in the room, but there was nothing of immediate use. No furniture was bolted down the way it had been in her previous cell, but the trouble of taking a lamp with her as her weapon of choice far outweighed the benefits.

Deciding something was better than nothing, she ripped open a box of pens and shoved a couple in her pocket alongside an extra nail she found. And by the time she had pried open one of the windows, Jemma was out of breath with half her body dangling out of the second-floor window.

Fortunately, a long overhang lined the exterior. Jemma maneuvered herself to sit on the structure before scooting herself closer to the edge. The jump from her current position to the ground would hurt but not kill her. If she could survive torture and attempted brainwashing, she could survive a one-story drop.

Her mistake was trying to ease her way down. She counted on adrenaline to support her non-existent upper body strength, but Jemma had over-estimated just how fatigued her body had become. Her legs hung over the shingled awning, but she couldn’t hang onto the edge before letting go. The rest of her body slid off the overhang as she unceremoniously dropped to the ground.

Pain shot up the right side of her body where she fell, but Jemma scrambled up all her muster and might to stand and run.

She ran for the trees. The gate was not an option even if she knew where she was or where to go. Darkness would give her cover. All she had to do was clear the—

“Hey!” a voice shouted at her. Jemma slammed to a stop as if she had hit a brick wall when she saw a guard in full tactical gear a few meters in front of her. Swiveling, she dashed in another direction.

The pounding steps behind her shot bullets of panic and desperation into her chest. She heard more shouting and she blindly ran in any direction that did not have armed agent in her way.

So turned around, Jemma did not realize she had been corralled towards the gate until the man in the guardhouse—a different one from before—stepped out with his gun pointed straight at her.

She froze. Her hands shook. Her legs wavered. She couldn’t breathe.

“Jemma?”

She couldn’t turn toward the sound of her name. Her brain and body were fixed on the man with the gun aimed at her coming closer and closer. Until he stopped moving and dropped his arms.

“What are you doing out here?”

Something registered in her mind—his voice—and her head whipped around to see a sculpted chest far too close for comfort. Jemma stumbled back reflexively. She was surprised she didn’t fall over.

“I—“ she croaked. She wanted to turn around, to see if the man had holstered his gun or returned to his post—or if he had gotten closer with his gun redrawn while her back was turned to him. But Jemma couldn’t stray her attention from the enemy right in front of her eyes whose reputation of violence and cruelty was likely tenfold compared to the nameless guards.

“I needed—“ She gasped for air. The pain on her right side throbbed acutely.

“Some air?” he supplied. She didn’t nod.

He knew what she was doing. She knew he knew. He had to know from the moment he left her in the room—pulling up the live feed from the hidden camera, watching her rummage through the belongings and all but jumping out the bedroom window. There was probably a silent alarm she triggered. He was probably radioed in to the chatter and shouts of the guards, chasing her down.

He was lying for her. She was revolted.

“Let’s go back inside,” he said. “It’s colder out here at night than what you think.”

And he stood there, uncomfortably close, and waited.

Jemma squeezed her eyes shut. She hated the sight.

When she acquiesced, he followed—his arm hovering over her back the whole way.

Jemma sat on the bed against the headboard with her body held still. She clutched at the quilt, covering everything below her waist. It should’ve felt like heaven being cushioned by white pillows of comfort compared to the single, scratchy sheet on that ratty mattress of her old Hydra cell.

It felt like a trap.

When he had followed her into the bedroom, Jemma thought he would take the desk chair, but instead he sat at the edge of the bed.

“Listen…”

Jemma tensed and tried to shrink away from him, from his impending words.

“It’s my fault,” he said. “You were never supposed to be there for that long. Never should have fallen into Bakshi’s hands.” Unable to look at his face, she watched his own hands clench. “I didn’t find out until it was too late, and even after, the only thing I could do was make sure you were comfortable until my last operation was complete and I could come get you.”

He didn’t come get her. He sent people to get her for him—one of whom did not hesitate to shoot her for not cooperating.

“I’m sorry I was late, that I didn’t get to you sooner. But I’m here now.”

Was that supposed to make her feel better? Jemma sunk into the bedding. If it could swallow her whole, that would be preferable over listening to him talk.

His apology meant nothing when he was one and the same with the very organization that had tortured her.

She stared at the white dress lying in a heap on the floor where she had left it. It was from him. All the gifts were from him. Her stomach rolled.

“I don’t want you to worry anymore.” Her gaze returned to his fists. “You’re safe now.”

He rested a hand palm side down on top of the duvet right by her leg. Jemma could feel his body heat through the covers. His pinky finger was too close. She didn’t dare move.

“You’re with me. Nobody will come here or take you away. I will never let them hurt you again. I promise.”

He sat there, waiting. Her body clenched. She felt the pens and nail still in her back pocket, and Jemma wondered what she could possibly do with them now when she had a knife in her hand a mere hour ago.

When she couldn’t take it anymore, when the burn of his gaze was too bright to ignore, she glanced at his face, sporting the same expression he had given her the last time she looked. There was something he wanted to say, something he expected.

He was looking—waiting—for something from her.

Jemma had nothing to give.

**Author's Note:**

> Is there a sequel? Yes. When will the sequel be posted? Probably 2033, give or take a few years.


End file.
